Death Comes Slowly Kuro AU
by Dawwnee
Summary: The events of that December night change. Vincent and Rachel live, but in the process loose their cherished son to Death.  One-shot, may add stories as they come later


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler or any of its characters, Yana Toboso does.

**Author's Notes: **This is an AU I created on Tumblr. Direct quote from my AUs and plots page – 'That night of his 10th birthday, it is not Rachel and Vincent who die. Instead, the two survive, and Ciel is kidnapped by enemies of Phantomhive, spending a month put through torture and abuse. His captors remove his tongue and right eye - sending it to his family as proof their treasured son was in poor shape - and blinding his left eye. He is raped, beaten, and cut open repeatedly - only to be stitched back up again. On February 14th, Ciel finally dies - a blessing he'd been hoping for for days - moments before his father arrives in an attempt to save him. Driven by the abrupt loss of her son, Rachel's grief causes her to begin hallucinating, making herself believe that all was fine, that her life with her family was still whole and happy, that she still had her son. Upon his death, Ciel is granted access to Heaven, and given the chance to become an Angel so that he may watch over his broken and grieving family, wanting to assure his parents that he was fine, and happy, and that he wanted them to be able to move on properly. [This is an AU I created with r-phantomhive, and I would honestly love a Vincent to also play this with]'

**Warnings:** Child abuse – both physical and sexual – and death. Mild gore.

The numbness that was slowly spreading through his body was the first blessing the boy had felt in a month, ignoring the fact that the gradual numbness was just a sign of his brain function starting to shut down, blood and warmth draining from his limps in a natural but vain attempt to protect the more important internal organs. He knew what was coming, yes, even the precious, sheltered child of an Earl knew, and still the knowledge drove weak, cracked, bloody lips to curl ever so slightly upwards. A relieved smile on the mangled face of a dying ten-year-old.

They didn't realise, though. Or, if they did, it wasn't enough for them to care, for the disgusting monster that had pried apart thighs too weak and broken to fight back to stop. It didn't matter, though, because this abuse, at least, had become far too frequent for it to hurt too badly, most of the time. Forcibly heightened pain tolerance had not been a blessing – just because something didn't hurt as bad didn't mean it wasn't bad – and the tolerance had only driven his captors to be more brutal with him. Like now, when the monster made his displeasure towards the child's lack of reaction known, dragging a jagged blade across emaciated ribs – that brought on a reaction, the weak frame spasming in the wake of pain, those softly smiling lips parting as a weak cry broke free – a squeak at best. He'd long since stopped screaming. Stopped the pointless cries for his mother and father to rescue him, for his dog to cuddle close at night like he used to, for a wet nose to greet him when he opened his eyes to the smell of Grandpa's tea. It hadn't taken long at all for that hope of salvation to be crushed out of him.

It hadn't taken long for them to rob him of the ability to scream for help. To scream his parents' names. He no longer had the sweet relief of being able to try to ease the splitting of chapped lips, or being able to get the food and water they usually only gave him if he begged and pleaded with them. Speech had been robbed from him.

He didn't long for things to be different. Not anymore. Not now. No, right now, all he longed for was a window, or an open roof, so he could take one last look at whatever sky he was about to die under. At his namesake. But even such gifts were pointless. Another thing robbed from him. The agony from the moment the monsters tore his right eye free from its socket was burned into his mind, so much so that what they were going to do with it – a notion that had horrified him – was a faint and later lost memory of that day, but was still a memory that caused echoes of that pain to burn the moment it crossed his mind. And, while they'd not bothered to do the same to the other, they had bothered with the effort to render it useless, and their prey blind.

Blind and mute. If by some miracle he had had the slimmest chance of surviving this, he'd be nothing more than an invalid. Someone to bring shame to his name, his family... Something they'd have to hide away and he'd willingly stay hidden. They probably wouldn't want him around anymore, anyway. He'd already soiled their good name. Allowed his own body to be mutilated and dirtied. There was no way he could ever fill his birth-role as Phantomhive Heir now. Not that any of it mattered. It was all too late now, this would all be over very soon – he swore he could feel the pins and needles slowly trickling their way up his arms and legs, like knives and needle-points once had.

He wanted to say goodbye to them, though, just be able to have them hold him, to hear their loving voices one last time before he slipped into the void. And he would have allowed his fogging mind to drift off to pleasant thoughts and memories, had it not been for the sudden sensation of 'stitches' popping against skin, the lances of pain as flailed flesh once again spread open to dirty air and prying fingers. They'd cut him open, closed him up, cut him open, closed him up, like he was some treasure chest they didn't want anyone else to know they were peeking inside, and the conditions he was in made it perfect for infection to start and bury itself deep within the split skin and muscle. Those calloused fingers worked at the re-opened flesh, digging into the wound, forcing that tiny body to bend and buckle with each new thrust, pushing and pulling at the edges until the frail, healing seams started to rip and tear once again. And all the little noble could do was writhe, his bloodied face screwing up in the agony that stole from him the breath needed to cry out.

Another wound plucked open once again, and a quiet voice in the ten-year-old's mind whispered 'not much longer now, just a little more, almost done', and he no longer knew if he could call it his own 'experience' with this or some sacred Guardian Angel trying to make his last moments in this world easier. Yes, this broken little boy still believed in that, still put the last remnants of his hopes and wishes into being granted access to that Holiest of places. He hadn't asked for some monster to put his... thing inside his bum, after all, he hadn't wanted this... God couldn't call him a sinner if this was against his will, right? He'd still be allowed through those pearly gates when the time came.

Sure enough, just as he was promised, the end came quickly. The monster had finished with him, left his bleeding victim for a more entertaining pursuit, and he could no longer move his limbs, the last tiny movements fading away until all that was left was the stuttering breaths and the faint, stalling beat of a weakening heart. Maybe, had the wounds littering his chest and stomach not been re-opened, the little slate-haired boy would have lasted that little bit longer, that little bit of time that was needed to allow him even a small portion of his final wish.

But Fate and Lady Luck were never kind to the well-off they managed to drag down into the depths of Hell, and, by the time Vincent had managed to burst into the decadent room his son had spent the past month imprisoned in, the child's fragile, blood-filled lungs had deflated in the wake of the boy's final, wheezing breath. Death had staked his claim on tiny Ciel Phantomhive, the boy gladly accepting his embrace, stepping into that light at the end of the tunnel with relief obvious on his features, blue eyes wide with awe.


End file.
